The challenge here is to write for ten minutes about a memory. I write less when I draw more. But I remember when I was a kid drawing was my main form of story telling. I would kneel down at the foot of my bed like I was praying, the TV would be on in front of me a buzz of white rerun noise, and I would be nose deep in a drawing pad sketching away something fantastic, adventuresome or dark. There was a cadence to what I drew back then, a sort of hum to myself as my pencil scratched out a ninja girl kicking into the air or the whirl of a phantom out for a late night haunt. I had a rhythm down that would bring my little goblins, cyborgs, mutants and mermaids to life. Back then there was no Instagram or Twitter to post my mini masterpieces to, no “likes” to solicit, no followers. America wasn’t even Online. The audience I had were my mom and dad, my brothers, the inside of my drawers and the dust bunnies under my bed. But I drew ferociously and my stories were vibrant and alive on those pages. These days when I draw, I don’t tell myself the same stories. As often anyway. I wonder if that’s because somewhere along the line I learned to write them down. I still love to draw. I still love to write. But I don’t hate to draw and sometimes I really hate to write. But I have to. I need my stories to come alive. I need audiences to fall in love like the dust bunnies did.